Page 3 of Weddings, Revenge & Fake Dating

“Because they’re plump and moist. No, sorry.” I press a finger to my forehead and shake my head. “I’m making this worse. Saying the word moist is taboo now. Though I don’t understand why because moist cake is the best cake. So, don’t take it the wrong way, your lips are not moist like cake. No, they’re . . .”

His eyebrows shoot skyward as he watches my level-ten train wreck.

Even though I’m fully aware of what’s transpiring, I can’t stop. I have to fix this. I search the ceiling, my brain reeling on. How is moist the only word I can think of?

“Your lips, they’re . . .” My hands flutter in the air as if this will make me think faster. “They’re mo-mo-mo-motivational!”

Yes!

I punch my arms toward the sky to give the newly found and perfectly normal word emphasis. When I do, my protective beach towel, the one hiding my nakedness, slips off my body and drops to the floor around my bare feet.

2/

nathan

Fucking Dick Butterflies

When I rolled out of bed ten minutes ago, the only thing on my mind was a double espresso and a poolside nap, especially after last night. But this unexpected big-tits reveal has my brain and dick alert so fast, I’m not sure if I’m still dreaming.

No, I’m certain it’s a dream because the event unravels in my mind in slow motion. From the moment the woman’s arms rise and the towel releases its hold, I’m hooked, mesmerized, enthralled, and ready for playtime.

Though her body is all winding curves like a deliciously plump 1950s pinup, it’s clear her personality is more like a quirky character in a rom-com movie. She’s painfully awkward.

With this new perspective, I let the event replay in my mind. It’s not as glamorous but is equally intriguing.

One second, her perky twins are tucked snugly into a beach towel, and the next, her double-Ds are jumping the lane like runaway bowling balls at Galaxy Bowl’s glow-in-the-dark night during my secret college bowling league. The difference? That horny little nerd would have passed out at the MILF flashing her exquisite multi-lane, ten-pin strike.

Somehow, I hold it together. Mostly.

With her towel on the floor, the MILF’s brain seems to have stalled from complete embarrassment. While she stands frozen and ninety-five percent naked, I manage to roll my wagging tongue back into my mouth and tell my dick to take a seat, then snag the towel off the floor to drape it over her chest and around her back.

I’m convinced I only do the right thing so I can lock her in a pseudo hug, making our bodies press together in places untouched by the opposite sex far longer than any man in my position ever cares to admit. Let’s say I’ve been distracted lately.

My gaze connects with her sparkling dark eyes behind her flashy sunglasses, and my mouth turns bone dry.

“I’m an expert at getting women naked, but thirty seconds is my best record,” I say with a smirk, hoping to lighten the mood.

She squeaks in response.

The elevator door opens with a ding. Cool air rushes in from the hotel’s open-air lobby, but it’s still not enough to douse this heat. I can’t explain it, but there’s a charge of electricity passing between us.

“Jeanie!” a man barks, and our heads swing toward the voice.

Confused, I scowl. Not only do I recognize his jarring Chicago accent, but I seem to be staring at an old boss from college, a man who never failed to schedule me during important exams. A man who fired me when I needed the paycheck most, and in doing so, almost destroyed my life.

But his wife? She was another story altogether. She was . . .

A montage of images from all those years ago, ones I long stored away for my young-adult spank bank, play in my mind.

Looking beyond the colorful sunglasses, I study the woman in my arms and audibly gulp. In an instant, I’m eighteen all over again, and the tent in my pants pitches faster than a World Series MVP.

How could I forget this body? Christ, the legs? And now, the glorious tits. She’s Jeanie fucking Benton, the Beef Sandwich Queen of Chicago and my first adult crush.

Holy shit. My fingers curl around her a little tighter when I recall a random dream I just had about her.

“Roman?” she says when I wish she was saying my name instead.

I become protective when her terrified eyes lock with his. She sucks in a sharp breath.